


And we'll never be royals

by madamedarque



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Aumerle and Queen Isabella are BFFs in this, Multi, Richard is cheer captain and Aumerle is on the bleachers, contrived love triangles, extreme silliness, high school drama clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-26
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:44:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamedarque/pseuds/madamedarque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All summer there has been this steady stream of shirtless profile pictures. Ned looks at each one, very quietly. It would be <i>creepy</i>, he has been reliably informed, to like them all. But who would note his name among the others?</p>
            </blockquote>





	And we'll never be royals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angevin2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angevin2/gifts).



> For angevin2, who likes Richard/Aumerle, the Queen, and cracky AUs. This is my dubious effort to combine all three.

“Two-hundred-and-eighty-two likes now.”

“Which one?”

“The beach,” Ned says automatically. “Not the one with Bushy and Bagot, but…the other one.”

Ned is blushing, Isabella notes. The fourth time today. And it isn’t even third period yet. 

Things that make Ned Aumerle blush: Richard Bordeaux at the beach without his shirt, Richard Bordeaux smiling at his iPhone, his arm at an awkward angle. Two-hundred-and-eighty-two likes for the careless selfie, which Richard had probably taken between chatting up the lifeguards and trying to buy drinks at the food stand.

All summer there has been this steady stream of shirtless profile pictures. Ned looks at each one, very quietly. It would be _creepy_ , he has been reliably informed, to like them all. But who would note his name among the others? 

Richard has eight-hundred-and-thirty-six Instagram followers, he tells Isabella.

Really, she says. She is lying on his bed and painting her nails, vaguely ineptly; really she is preoccupied in watching him, the way he hesitates over the keyboard and runs his fingers though his hair.

****

RichardBordeaux: you looked really hot last night at Bagot’s party

RichardBordeaux: jk lol. Am still sort of wasted, not going to lie

NedAumerle: Oh, haha. You had me worried there

RichardBordeaux: you’re definitely on my list though

NedAumerle: You have a list?

RichardBordeaux: I like certain people more than others.

****

“I can’t believe you’ve been to his house,” says Harry Percy, biting enthusiastically into an egg mayonnaise sandwich. “Where does he live?”

“Off the wharf looking towards the bridge. My dad takes him out on the boat sometimes. He doesn’t like it very much.”

But the house,” Harry wheedles. “Tell me, Bolingbroke.”

“Oh, it’s normal, you know. Nice. Nothing special.”

Richard’s house is more than nice, thinks Ned. Admittedly Henry Bolingbroke lives on prime seafront property with seven bedrooms and a wholly unnecessary roof deck, so perhaps his evaluation of real estate is not to be trusted.

“Oh, shut up, Bolingbroke,” Green interjects cheerfully. “We all know your father owns half the waterfront from here to Narragansett. More importantly, Ned, were you thinking of auditioning for our play?” 

He feels a wave of panic at the prospect. “Not particularly.” 

“Well, I signed you up for a slot on Tuesday, 2 P.M. And you too, Isabella, because I thought I might as well have the set.”

“I can’t be in the play. I have orchestra practice on Tuesdays.”

“What?” Bagot shouts over the din of the lunchroom. “Sorry, I can’t hear anything in here. I thought I heard you say you were coming on Tuesday—”

“I’ll go if Ned goes.”

“Perfect. Because he will.”

“That’s an intriguing perspective,” says Ned, without raising his eyes. 

“Oh, I know someone’s coming in for auditions who you might find very interesting,” says Bushy airily. He rummages in his pockets. “Do you think I’ll lose directorial privileges if I smoke in here?”

“Yes,” interjects Richard from behind him. He sets his tray on the table with a clatter, slides in between Ned and Isabella and looks at Harry Percy with graceful disinterest. “Who are you?” 

“He’s a freshman,” says Ned, taking pity on him.

Harry Percy opens his mouth to reply, but Bushy cuts across him smoothly. “Richard,” he says with a flourish, “Are you or are you not appearing in room 205 on Tuesday to audition for the role of Viola in our incisive, strikingly postmodern musical interpretation of _Twelfth Night_? Are you or are you not pleased and honored to so embody the festive character of the Elizabethan theater, made relevant for the internet age?”

“He hasn’t even auditioned yet,” says Bolingbroke sourly.

“If you want a slot, we could fit you in.”

Richard leans forward and tosses his long auburn hair to one side. “Do you think that I would be a good actor? Actually?”

“Also, we have decided,” Bushy continues, as if he had not been interrupted. “Isabella will play the role of Olivia, and Ned will be our Orsino.”

“No,” they say, in unison.

But Richard smiles and brushes his shoulder as he reaches for the ketchup, and Ned knows that he will.

****  
Isabelle wonders, once again, why she decided to take AP Environmental Science. She stares with distaste at her model of a miniature scale biosphere. Ned would have something amusing to say about this, but he is otherwise engaged in asking Richard if he would please explain this formula to him, one more time, because he doesn’t quite understand? And Richard is talking in a low tone, very patiently, his hand draped in a casual and insinuating way on the back of Ned’s chair. He seems to feel her gaze, because he looks up and winks. She looks away, her cheeks burning.

“It’s not that I’m not happy for Ned.” Two hours later: staring out the bus window.

“You seem sort of depressed, though,” says Cicely, casually handing her a slice of orange. “Look, we should do something fun. I could sing for you—”

“Lip sync karaoke night?”

“Better than _Twelfth Night_ rehearsal. Ned and Richard Bordeaux might look gorgeous together, but they’re not exactly about to set the performing arts community aflame.”

Isabella laughs, a bit maliciously. Since Ned decided to spend more time with Richard than his best friend, even after begging her on his knees to take the role, she’s been less inclined to be charitable. Ned isn’t a bad actor, exactly; mostly he stares at Richard with a pained expression. But as for Richard, one might expect an exhibitionist of his caliber to put on more of a show. He’s a bit affected on stage, slightly uncomfortable—he flits around Ned in a swirl of nervous energy, as if he’s afraid of standing still.

“Bagot doesn’t like it,” she admits. “He says he’s wasting his talents.”

Not that he has many, she thinks. But another, smaller voice: You _do_ like him.

“There’s always something one can say for Richard, though,” says Cecily. “He knows where to stand on stage so that his hair catches the light.”

****

RichardBordeaux: I’ve been practicing my lines

RichardBordeaux: Cousin

NedAumerle: So that’s what they’re calling it now …

RichardBordeaux: I can’t imagine what you mean. 

RichardBordeaux: Does your dad like me? I mean, as a nephew

NedAumerle: He loves you. Btw, did you want to come over tonight? He’s making spaghetti.

RichardBordeaux: I think I know the scene for tomorrow?

NedAumerle: No, I need help with the biosphere

…

NedAumerle: It’s very challenging material.

****

Ned is in heaven. Or rather, he would be, if it weren’t for the perpetually invasive presences of Bushy, Bagot, and Green. He can hardly enjoy several hours per day in Richard’s company with them peering over his shoulder and offering unsolicited comments. Still, there are some consolations: he has complete justification for staring at Richard while he speaks.

“She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud—”

“Dear god, no,” says Bagot.

“What do you mean ‘no?’ You have to give me more than that.” When Richard frowns, thinks Ned, he reminds you that you don’t understand him, not really. 

“Perhaps you could offer him something more concrete.”

“Go away, Isabella, you’re not even in this scene.” 

“I thought you promised that this production would be a community endeavor in which no actor’s voice is privileged above others.”

“You did,” volunteers Bolingbroke sagely. 

Bagot sighs, his fingers pressed to his temple. “I don’t recall the presence of Malvolio in 2.4 either.”

“All right, ten minute break,” interjects Green quickly.

“The peacemaker.” Richard stands close and whispers conspiratorially in Ned’s ear, his breath warm. They retreat upstage behind the curtain, ignoring the sounds of directorial conflict emanating from the auditorium.

“Will you tell me something?” asks Richard.

“Anything.” The word escapes before he can substitute something more evasive, and he’s glad it’s too dark for him to see Richard’s expression.

“Do you think Isabella would go out with me?”

For a moment he can hardly breathe. He thinks, wildly, how could you, but even then realizes the absurdity of it; after all, it’s not as if anything had been discussed. We’re just talking, he thinks. And even at that, not very often.

Richard’s shape is barely distinguishable in the darkness. He’s waiting for an answer, but Ned seems to have temporarily lost his powers of speech.

“I…think she’s focusing on school,” he says lamely.

Richard lays a hand on his arm gently, without a trace of mockery. “I still like you too, you know. I like a lot of people.”

The others are calling them back. He stands and gracefully ducks out from behind the curtain, leaving Ned alone in the dark.

*****

“It isn’t fair,” says Isabella miserably. “He should have told you.”

Ned has been staring determinedly at the ceiling since he came in. “To be fair, he didn’t promise anything. He never does. But I feel like I’ve made a fool of myself.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.” Isabella flops down on the bed next to him, her head parallel to his so she doesn’t have to meet his eyes. “But I mean, he does have a reputation. Bushy, Bagot, Green…”

Ned screws his eyes shut as if in pain. “I never knew.”

“You didn’t?” She sits up in genuine astonishment. “It was an awful way to tell you he didn’t want to be exclusive, in any case. Do you know, I don’t even think he’s ever looked twice at me.”

“Plenty of people do.”

“Anyway,” she continues, ignoring the flattery, “clearly you’re better off without him.”

“Yes. Clearly.”

“Just the performance to get through now.”

*****

RichardBordeaux: Are you angry with me?

RichardBordeaux: Don’t be, it’s very tiresome

RichardBordeaux: Also, all the plants in my biosphere have died.

****

“What country, friends, is this?”

Tonight, the dull greys and blues of the cafeteria walls have taken on an air of uncommon splendor. Ned had watched earlier in wonder as Bushy, Bagot, and Green had improvised a thrust stage in a room usually used for school assemblies and cheerleading practice. But mostly, he admits, the credit goes to Richard. He’s on form tonight, resplendent in a pale blue tunic. Old Gaunt is in the front row, applauding aggressively at inopportune moments—and the audience seems to share his general enthusiasm.

Backstage: “I knew you’d be great.”

Ned knows what this costs his cousin, who seems to regard Richard with an uneasy mix of hero worship and repressed animosity. 

Richard smiles winningly and drapes his arm over Bolingbroke’s shoulders. “Thanks, cousin.”

“Be _quiet_ ,” hisses Bushy, pushing by them in full stage manager apparel. “Ned, what are you waiting back here for?”

The truth is that he’s been cowering behind the curtain watching Richard flirt with Isabella’s Olivia, but he isn’t about to admit that to Bushy. He mumbles his excuses and makes a hasty retreat.

Only one scene to go, and the prospect of being on stage with Richard again makes him vaguely ill. Perhaps, he thinks, he might fall off the stage? But on second thought, he’d better not; knowing his mother, she’ll be taking pictures illicitly every time he appears.

Isabella brushes by him, her skirt trailing behind her. She squeezes his arm as she passes, but she doesn’t look back. 

He breathes deeply and steps into the dazzlingly bright lights. He can just about make out the front row—as expected, York looks disgruntled and his mother is beaming with pride. Richard, on the other hand, is all too close and real, his hair glinting red and gold under the glare.

“And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds…” Ned pauses. 

He realizes with horror that the words have dried up. The silence drags on painfully, interminably. Someone—he could swear he hears his father—clears his throat. 

Suddenly, as if he had never thought of it before, Richard kisses him. Ned can imagine the audience’s reaction, but then the blood is pounding in his ears and he’s kissing Richard back and he can hardly conceive of anything beyond this moment, this stage. 

The resulting tumult of giggling and whispering far outstrips any collective scorn for his lapse in memory, and when Richard breaks away he feels a distinct sense of gratitude. Someone whistles loudly.

“Thank you,” Ned whispers. 

“That wasn’t for you, cousin. “ Richard smiles, oblivious to the stares. “Well. Only partly.”

****

_Epilogue_

Isabella self-consciously adjusts her sash and tiara, staring thoughtfully at her reflection. It is not, she thinks, exactly what I wanted: but we all like to know that we’re liked. 

“Doing your Richard imitation again?”

Ned ducks in, foot holding the door, face flushed from dancing. She looks away quickly.

He sighs. “Oh, please come back out. Richard is asking for his date. He’s threatening to break his crown into pieces and share it with the group.”

He won’t, Isabella thinks, and laughs a bit despite herself. “I just feel bad about it.”

“About what?”

“You know.” She stares at the bathroom floor. “You and Richard. I feel like…you should be in my place, somehow.”

Ned looks genuinely astonished. “Oh, me and Richard? We’re perfect, I can tell you that. Of course I shouldn’t be in your place. You’re the queen.”

She doesn’t understand how he can look so happy, so _satisfied_ with himself. But perhaps, she decides, the mystery of Richard Bordeaux and Edward Aumerle is not one she can ever unravel. “I’m the queen,” she repeats slowly.

“That’s what I just said. Come on, let’s dance.”

The room is dense with bodies. She takes Ned’s hand as they push their way to the front of the dance floor. When Richard sees them, he disentangles himself from the furiously gyrating mass of Bushy, Bagot, and Green and makes his way over. He takes both their hands.

The DJ spots them and leans towards the microphone. Richard laughs, pulling Ned and Isabella closer.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your senior prom king and queen.”


End file.
